


The Plaid of the Mundys

by salainen



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2128848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salainen/pseuds/salainen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demo takes Sniper to Scotland to meet the family. It goes better than expected, actually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Plaid of the Mundys

“You want me to go to a _wedding_ with you?” Sniper asks, looking at Demo over the tops of his glasses. “As in, out in the real world to a wedding.”

“That's exactly what I'm saying,” Demo says. “Don't look so worried. It's just my cousin, and she's Highland Demolitions, same as me. We're a broad-minded bunch.”

Sniper snorts. “Yeah, that's real reassuring, mate. Bring me home for the first time to not only meet your mum but your whole bloody family, and every one of them knows how to blow me to smithereens.”

“We can sit you on the groom's side if it would make you feel better, you great craven.”

“Are you joking? I'm sticking to you like glue the whole time we're in Scotland.”

“You're from Australia, lad,” Demo says. “Aren't you used to sharks and snakes and huge fecking spiders? There's nothing in Scotland near as terrifying. Except Nessie, and we're not going anywhere near Loch Ness, not if I have anything to say about it.” His eye is dark.

“We can hunt Nessie on our next trip out.”

“I'll hold you to that, see if I don't. But for now, I'm taking you to my cousin's wedding and there'll be naught but sheep as far as the eye can see.” He remembers what Sniper once told him while drunk. “You wouldn't rather take one of them with you, would you?”

“No,” grumbles Sniper. “Though if you don't let up with the sheep jokes I won't be going with you either.”

“You're so cute when you get grumpy,” Demo says, leaning up and kissing him on the cheek. “There's truly nothing to worry about, love. My family's not going to blow you up. Probably.”

“'S real comforting. Cheers.”

Demo lifts his bottle of scrumpy and grins.

* * *

The first stop on this sure-to-be-a-disaster trip is to Demo's mansion out in the desert to pick up his mother. 

“Mum, it's me,” he says, letting the two of them into the house.

“Tavish!” she exclaims, coming into the hallway, cane swinging wildly. “You know, you don't have to go to this wedding and take all this time off your job...”

“Mum, it's fine. Paid vacation and everything.”

“Back when I was making the money around here, I worked for it!” Her cane slams into Sniper's shin. “Who's this, then? Tavish, there's a burglar in the house! Didn't you shut the door?!”

Demo rolls his eye. “Of course I shut the door! That's Sniper's leg.”

“Eh? This your boyfriend, then?” She gives Sniper's leg a few more thwacks. He tries not to wince until he remembers she can't see him, and then gives in to the urge. “Skinny legs.”

“Aye, he's a slip of a thing,” Demo agrees, smiling so Sniper knows he's teasing. 

“Hm,” Mrs. DeGroot says, as though mulling it over. “Let me see you, then.”

Sniper's at a loss. How's she supposed to see him with no eyes? Demo motions for him to bend down so his face is level with his mother's, and she immediately puts a hand on it.

“Och, you've got a face like a horse,” she says, getting his glasses all smudged. “And I thought you said he was a sniper! He's wearing glasses!”

“Why does everyone say that?” Sniper mutters once she's done feeling his face. He cleans his glasses on his shirt.

“Because you do have a face like a horse, love, and it's bloody hilarious to think about you shooting with your glasses off.”

“Thanks.”

“So what's your name, then? I'll not be calling you 'Sniper' this whole time,” Mrs. DeGroot continues.

“Just call me Mundy, everyone does.” Well, everyone who won't call him “Sniper” instead.

“Mundy? You a Scotsman?” she looks vaguely pleased at the idea, and he'd like to keep her happy, if only so she'll stop hitting him with her stick.

“Uh, my great-grandfather was. I'm an Aussie, myself.”

“Not much of one! I didn't feel a mustache.”

“Oi, I could grow a mustache if I wanted to!” He's had a lot of people question his Australian-ness in his life. Comes with the territory of being six foot four and weighing one hundred and thirty pounds.

“You'd look a fool with a mustache,” Mrs. DeGroot says. “Don't do that.”

“I wasn't planning to.” This conversation is bewildering.

Demo is shaking with silent laughter behind him.

“We best get on the road,” he says, swallowing his smile. “Mum, you can pester Mundy about his job in the van.”

“ _Job_ ,” she says, scathingly, as she takes her son's arm so he can lead her to the van. “You boys need to find more work.”

“I've told you a thousand times, Mum, we make plenty of money with just the one.”

“It's not just about money,” she says, settling into Sniper's backseat. “Keeps you sharp, working.”

“We're plenty sharp,” Demo says, with the tone of a man who's had this discussion too many times.

“Sharp, he says, with the two of you half-blind and lazing about on your arses all day!”

“Ey, only Mundy sits about.” Sniper glares at him. “Eyes on the road, love.”

They ride like that for quite some distance, Mrs. DeGroot going on about jobs that she and Demo's father had held in their lives. Some of them are actually pretty interesting – apparently Mr. DeGroot was the one who blew up the Queen of England.

“Is that true?” Sniper asks, laughing.

“Surprisingly, yeah,” Demo answers.

His mother hits him with her cane. “He was talking to me.”

They pull into the airport parking lot. “We're here,” Sniper announces.

“Thank god,” Mrs. DeGroot says. “This van smells like piss.”

Sniper and Demo exchange a look. Demo starts laughing. Sniper flips up two fingers.

* * *

“I'm going to the bar,” Demo says once they've checked in and they're waiting for their flight. Both Sniper and Mrs. DeGroot catch him by an arm and pull him back. 

“Oh, no, you're not,” he says. “I'm not flying for sixteen hours with you passed out drunk on my shoulder.”

“Maybe you're better than you look, Mundy,” she says. “Lord knows Tavish needs someone to keep him in line.”

“You don't have to tell me,” Sniper says, eyes on the ceiling.

“Oi, I keep _him_ in line plenty,” Demo argues. Sniper isn't much of a drinker, but Demo does have to rein him in where Spy's concerned. “I'm not always drunk and irresponsible.”

“Not _always_ ,” Sniper repeats. “Just come with me and get a book from the newsstand, eh?”

“Books,” Demo says, dismissive, but he trails after Sniper, leaving Mrs. DeGroot to sit in the waiting area.

They both end up with the usual kind of trash that airports sell, cheap, action-packed stories about square-jawed heroes who save the day and win the girl. They decide to share one book at a time, because it's more fun to swap mean-spirited comments about the writing than just to read it. Demo even reads parts of it out loud so his mother can join in.

The flight arrives, and security is immediately on their little group – two Black Scotsmen with empty eyesockets and an Australian boyfriend draw a lot of attention, after all. Two customs officers want to check the DeGroots' eyes for contraband.

“What do you think they've got in there,” Sniper asks when the officers show up, “bloody nuclear warheads?!”

The officers look at the three of them flatly. “Sir. Ma'am. Do you have nuclear weapons in your ...eye-holes?”

“Of course not! But you should have a look,” Demo says, leaning towards them and flipping up his eyepatch.

This stops the officers short. They're realizing they don't really want to look in there.

“Well?” Mrs. DeGroot prompts, now taking her glasses off.

The officers share an uneasy glance. “We believe you. Just. Put those back on.”

“No, I insist,” Demo says, still leaning in.

“Just get on the plane!” shouts the one on the left as they run away.

All three of them are laughing within seconds of customs' departure.

“We best get on the plane,” Demo says, wiping his eye. “Cousin Sylvia won't be happy if we all miss her wedding.”

“Ah, she'd understand, boyo,” Mrs. DeGroot says. “The whole family does it.”

Even Sniper smirks at that; Demo's told him about the Highland Demolitions tradition of losing all your eyes. They still hurry on board. By virtue of having never been to Scotland and having two eyes, Sniper gets the window seat, with Demo in the middle and Mrs. DeGroot on the aisle, where she immediately begins terrorizing the flight attendants.

Despite not being drunk after all, Sniper still spends fourteen out of sixteen hours with Demo snoozing on his shoulder. He smiles fondly down at his slack face, considers giving him a small kiss on the forehead and scandalizing a planeload of people, reconsiders, then turns back to reading the safety instructions.

* * *

“Wake up, you layabouts,” Mrs. DeGroot says, poking the two of them awake from where they've fallen asleep all over each other. “We're here.”

They both jerk awake, turning to the window. They are indeed setting on a stretch of wet tarmac, rain pouring down.

“Welcome to Scotland,” Demo says, giving Sniper's hand a quick squeeze before standing up and grabbing his bag from the overhead compartment. “Let's go, lad.”

Sniper unfolds himself from the cramped seat, stretches, and follows Demo's lead. The Scottish customs officers seem less suspicious of their little group, and soon they've claimed their bags and are piling into a rental car. This time Demo drives.

“Are you even allowed to drive?”

“What, because of my eye?”

“No,” Sniper says, “because there's no way you don't have multiple drink-driving charges.”

“...Shut it.”

“Love you too.”

The wedding's being held at the family estate out on the moors, apparently a place big enough for every DeGroot and their plus-one to stay without getting a hotel, so a few hours outside of the city they're pulling up to what essentially amounts to a castle.

“Blimey,” Sniper says, admiring it.

“What, you don't have anything like this in your family?” Demo jokes.

“Considering my great-grandfather ended up in Australia for stealing some bloke's sheep...no.”

“Ah, it's not all it's cracked up to be, love. Drafty as all hell.”

“Don't talk about the Keep that way,” his mother scolds.

_Drafty_ , Demo mouths.

They're met inside by about ten more DeGroots, all wearing eyepatches or dark glasses. At least no one's going to tell Sniper his glasses are “inappropriate”. “Aunt Margaret! Tavish!” exclaims one of the younger ones, one of the ones who still has eyes. “Good to see you. Who's this, then?” he asks, looking up at Sniper.

“'S Mundy,” Demo says. “My boyfriend.”

“Afternoon,” Sniper says, waving awkwardly. He's expecting some muttering or strange looks or _something_ , but all he gets is a warm welcome, complete with a few hugs. He lets the blind ones get a feel for his face (he takes his glasses off first, this time) and tells them the story of his great-grandfather and the sheep when one of Demo's aunts asks if he's Scottish, which gets a hearty laugh.

“What do you do, then?” one of the uncles says.

He looks at Demo, a silent question - _is it okay to tell them?_

“He's a crazed gunman,” Demo says, answering for him with a grin. 

Sniper frowns. “I'm an assassin.”

He waits for the “what's the difference?” but the DeGroots just nod understandingly and ask him about his guns. 

Demo pulls him out with the excuse of showing him to their rooms after about ten minutes of small talk about rifles; he knows Sniper can't deal with this many people and this much interaction for an extended period, even if the subject matter is familiar and pleasant.

“Thanks, darl,” he says once they're upstairs, running his hands down his face. 

“Aye, thought you might've needed rescuing.”

“Yeah, I did. Hope your family's not too upset about me fucking off, though.”

“They didn't mind; you'd know if they did.” He smiles. “Now come here.”

“Only if you don't want to talk,” Sniper says, flopping backwards onto the bed.

Demo joins him. “Oh, I don't.”

* * *

“Morning, love,” Demo says, pulling open the curtains the next morning. Sniper groans and attempts to hide from the sunlight. “Oi, get out of bed. We've got things to do.”

“What things? The wedding's not for three more days!”

“Aye, but you've got a fitting today.”

“For what?!”

“Your wedding get-up,” he says. “And I know you brought your suit, but Sylvia wants everyone to look a certain way and I'd rather take her orders than her bombs.”

“Why did I let you bring me to this?”

Demo pulls the blankets off the bed. “Stop being a baby. It's just a tailor running his hands up those sticks you call legs for half an hour; you'll live.”

He makes a noise that sounds like “ururururghhghghgh”, but sits up. “Thanks, boyo,” Demo says, patting him on the cheek.

A few minutes and some clothes later, Sniper is in a room with a couple of Demo's various relatives and the tailor, who makes him take his pants off. He's glad that all the DeGroots in the room seem to be of the eyeless variety. The tailor does indeed start touching his legs an awful lot, measuring them from all angles and writing down his findings.

“All right,” the tailor says once he's done. “Your garments will arrive the day before the wedding.”

“Garments? You only measured my legs! Am I going to this wedding shirtless?”

This makes the DeGroots start laughing, but no one answers his question. He starts wondering if he should have started doing some push-ups or something before coming to this damnable place. He puts his pants back on and wanders off in search of Demo.

“Come over here,” Demo calls, waving him over as soon as he leaves the room. “Figured you might want to meet the reason we're over here in the first place: my cousin Sylvia and her fiancé, Ian. This here's my partner, Mundy.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking hands. “I, uh, like your castle.”

“It's still Granddad's castle, and then it'll be Uncle Andrew's,” Sylvia says, laughing. “But thank you. How was the tailor? Sorry for springing it on you.”

“Ah, no worries,” he says. “He just stroked my legs a lot. You know, normal Wednesday morning.”

All three of them practically howl with laughter at that. “You'll fit in right well around here,” Sylvia says after a moment. “Especially if you lose an eye at one point.”

“Fingers crossed I don't,” he says. “Kind of need those.”

“Ah, just the one,” Demo says, slapping him on the back.

* * *

The days leading up to the wedding fall into a pattern – wake up, breakfast, be dragged around the Keep by some relative or another, have them welcome him to the family, lunch, tell embarrassing stories about Demo, dinner, more socializing. Sniper is more exhausted than he's been in a long time, just from the sheer volume of talking he has to do.

“You're doing great, love,” Demo tells him two nights in, stroking his hair. “Soon we'll be back in the base and you can hide out on the roof for a week straight.”

“I'm not that bad,” he protests.

“You're pretty bad.”

“Well, I grew up in the middle of bloody nowhere and my family had two other people in it. Not used to this kind of crowding.”

“I know. You told me that ages ago, about the base.”

“Yeah, but this is way more crowded than the base.”

Demo rolls over and gives him a kiss. “If you really need to you can just tell the family to fuck off, they'll understand.”

“I'm not going to tell your family to fuck off!”

“All right, but don't blame me if you get all snappy.” He considers. “Snappier.”

The morning after that, his parcel from the tailor arrives. It's smaller than he was expecting, but then again, it's apparently just a pair of pants or something? Sniper opens it, and out falls a wad of tartan material. Oh no.

“Tav,” he says, banging on the bathroom door, “is this -”

“Yes!”

“Do I have to wear it?”

“Also yes!” Demo emerges from the bathroom, shirtless and halfway through brushing his teeth. “Let's see it.”

Sniper holds it up.

“ _On_ , you numpty. Put it on!”

He grumbles a bit, but obliges, starting to slide it on over his boxers.

“Don't you know anything about being a proper Scotsman? Take those off.”

He obeys, again, throwing them quite literally in Demo's face. By the time he's removed the offending undergarments from his vision, Sniper's standing there in his new kilt, arms crossed over his chest and generally looking like he wants to take his kukri to something.

“I look like a complete wanker,” he says.

“Nah, once you get a shirt on and fix your sporran you'll be the talk of this wedding.”

“Shouldn't that be the people actually getting married?”

Demo shrugs, coming over to fix the aforementioned sporran. “Probably, but I'm not mad about either of _them._ There, now put your arms down and give us a spin.”

“I'm not doing that.”

“Fine,” he says, finishing up with his tooth-brushing, “you don't have to spin. But I'm telling you, lad, you look good. Better than good, really.”

“Everyone's going to see my legs,” he grouses, still crossing his arms and looking for all the world like he's trying to collapse in on himself.

“Mundy. Sniper. Love. Your legs are brilliant.” He gives him a kiss. “Gorgeous.” Another. “Beautiful.” He tips the two of them back into bed, laughing.

“I don't know what I'd do without you, sometimes.”

“Spend even more time being a cranky bastard,” Demo tells him, grinning. “And you might want to take that kilt off now if you still want it to be wearable tomorrow.”

* * *

It is wearable the next day, and the two of them show up to the Keep's built-in chapel wearing half a suit with their kilts. 

“Why is yours red and mine green?” Sniper asks when he sees Demo wearing his for the first time.

“Och, you really _don't_ know anything about being a proper Scotsman. These are family tartans, lad. All clans have one, and I guess that's the Plaid of the Mundys.”

“Wait, so I'll be the only one in green?!”

“Maybe? I don't know what all the husbands' tartans are, but you won't be the only one not in red, if that's your big issue.”

“Yeah, it...might've been.”

“You need to calm down about these things, love,” he says, adjusting Sniper's tie. “For one thing, half my family can't even see you. For another, as long as you don't go around talking shite about the way we make bombs or cheer for England in football you're welcome here. What's it like with your parents that's got you so jumpy?”

“My mum...well, she'll just be happy that I'm happy. My dad, though...”

“He's a fucker?”

“Too right.”

“Well, I'll sure to be as much of a bastard as possible when I meet him.”

“I'm holding you to that.”

The wedding itself is nothing special, up until the end and the “traditional lighting of the bombs”, but as expected from a family that produced Demo, the party afterwards is legendary. Within half an hour Sniper's as drunk as he's ever been, letting some of the DeGroots teach him how to do the Highland Fling (again, they've added explosives to it), until Demo comes to collect him for a slow dance. It mostly amounts to Demo pulling him around the floor because he's too drunk to move his feet properly, but it's nice regardless.

“I love you, you know,” Sniper says, leaning heavily on his partner.

“I know. I love you too.”

“You do?! Tha's amazing. Best news ever.”

“Mundy, you've been my bloody boyfriend for a year.”

“I have?!”

“I think you need to sit down. Have some water while I dance with my mum.”

“Okay.” Demo deposits him in a chair and puts a glass of water into his hand. “I love you, you know.”

“I know.” He quickly escapes with his mother before they have to have the whole conversation again.

* * *

By the time the party's over, both of them are so drunk they have to use the other as support to get up the stairs.

“Your family's really great, you know?”

“Aye, I know!”

“I'm so glad I married you, Tav.”

Demo laughs. “We're not married.”

“What! Why not?”

“Because we're both blokes, you daft thing.”

“Oh. Well, if one of us was a sheila I'd be married to you like _that_.” Sniper tries to snap his fingers, but he's too sloshed to do it properly. “Right quick, is what I mean.”

“I love you too.”

“You do?!”

* * *

Apparently “rum-based post-wedding hangover” was the last step in becoming one of the family, because the next morning at breakfast Sniper gets a cheer almost as loud as the one for the newlyweds.

Except from Mrs. DeGroot, who gives him a crack with her stick for not keeping Tavish sober instead.

* * *

“Hey, y'all, we got a postcard from Scotland,” Engie says, carrying in the mail.

“What's it say, Hardhat?”

“'Wish you were here',” he reads, then turns it over. “'Having a great time. Wedding was lovely. Miss you all, Demo.' And there's a picture glued here, have a look.” On the back is pasted a Polaroid of the two of them in their kilts with their arms around each other. They're both smiling broadly and clutching bottles of booze.

Scout snorts. “Nice legs.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'll stop making jokes about Sniper and the sheep he dated when it stops being funny.
> 
> usual reminder that prompts/requests can be left here or on [tumblr](http://gilgameshwulfenbach.tumblr.com).


End file.
